


Just Deserts

by muirgen_lys



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt Anders, M/M, Past Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Self-Hatred, self-destructive behaviour
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-28
Updated: 2014-11-28
Packaged: 2018-02-27 07:05:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2683763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/muirgen_lys/pseuds/muirgen_lys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anders, struggling with self-worth and guilt, engages in self-destructive relationships with people he knows will abuse him. When he approaches Fenris he expects more of the same. Instead he gets some much needed compassion from someone who understands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Deserts

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a kmeme prompt, which can be found here: https://dragonage-kink.dreamwidth.org/85219.html?thread=345916387

It's late, and the Hanged Man is loud, buzzing with people, all of whom are enjoying themselves more than he is. Isabela and Varric are sniping good-naturedly at each other, and Hawke and Merrill are flirting across the table. It's sickeningly sweet, and Anders fights back a surge of jealousy. Just because he's alone doesn't mean everyone should have to be. Even if being surrounded by sappy idiots does make the loneliness seem twice as thick.

He quashes that thought before it can grow into a full-blown pity party, and takes another drink. He'd need something a lot stronger than this to actually drown his sorrows – such as they are, and what there are of them - but somehow the motion still helps. 

His eyes linger on Isabela for a long moment. She would be willing; she usually is. Sex with Isabela is easy, and fun, and he trusts her not to make it more complicated than it has to be. 

Except that _easy_ and _fun_ aren't in his reach, not anymore, and this persistent desire to have them anyway is a weakness he really needs to shed. He has tried. He keeps his distance from people like Hawke, and Isabela – generous people, who will try to give him what he knows he can't have, and doesn't deserve. He sleeps alone, when he sleeps, and tries to ignore the ache in his chest. 

Still, the loneliness, gets to him, building and building until he can't face it anymore, and goes out looking for someone who will give him what he needs, instead of what he wants: someone who takes instead of asking him to give, and doesn't care if they leave him broken and shaking. Someone to see the ugliness inside him and make it real, bruising his skin to match the wreck beneath it. 

Someone who hates him. Someone like- 

“Are you alright, mage?”

He shakes off the reverie. “I'm fine.”

“You look distracted. Perhaps you should go home.”

It's a thinly veiled attempt to get rid of him, which he considers saying. He doesn't. He'll take the concern, even knowing it's false. “Perhaps I should,” he says. “I have work to do.”

He makes his way back to the clinic. It's cold, and dark, the lantern unlit since he's been out. He really does have work to do, and he ought to be doing it. Instead he lies down, and pretends not to hear the voice inside him that insists he can't keep doing this.

\----

It's been a fairly miserable day. He's cold, and tired, and damn near out of juice, and everyone else looks the same. He's shivering from the chill, or the exhaustion, or both, and he claws his hair out of his eyes. It has blood in it, and other things he doesn't want to think about. He'll wash it when he gets home. Maybe. If he doesn't pass out first.

Fenris flicks his sword, spattering blood off the end. The elf is just as much of a mess as he is, but Anders watches him anyway. Even bloody and brooding, Fenris is worth looking at: smooth brown skin over lithe muscle, and a handsome face despite its perpetual frown. Fenris might hate his tattoos, but they're certainly striking, coiling and intersecting across his arms, cut by the hard lines of his armour.

For a minute, Anders lets himself imagine that armour away. He pictures Fenris holding him, imagines losing himself in those patterns of metal and flesh. Imagines falling asleep with Fenris still beside him, safe. 

He jerks his eyes away. Safe...dear maker, what a stupid idea. It wouldn't be like that. It would be violent, and brutal, to match Fenris' hatred. Likely as not he'd leave bleeding, and rightly so. But he's taken worse. It's the price he pays for this self-indulgence, the price he _deserves_ to pay, and he'd pay it willingly right now to not be alone. It's pathetic and selfish, but right now he doesn't care.

He watches Fenris through the evening, waiting. When they leave, he trails along after the elf like a shadow. There's something terribly twisted about this, but what was he expecting? If he were doing the right thing he wouldn't be here.

He's pretty sure Fenris knows he's there, but the elf doesn't show any signs of it. He walks steadily, until he comes to a small square, where two walls meet in a solid corner, and stops with his back to them, waiting.

Anders steps out, lighting a small magelight so Fenris can see his face.

“What are you doing here, mage?” 

“Looking for you.” He drops the light, and closes the distance between them. Fenris doesn't stop him. Anders can't even begin to guess whether this gets him laid or killed, but he'll take the risk. He steps forward and kisses Fenris, forceful and desperate despite where he knows this will lead.

For a very long moment, Fenris doesn't react at all. Then the elf starts to kiss back, gentler and more cautious than Anders expected. 

When they break apart, Anders' heart is starting to race with an odd combination of desire and anxiety.

“Why?” Fenris asks, sounding genuinely confused. 

Anders shrugs helplessly, because pretending he doesn't know is easier than explaining. Fenris accepts the non-answer, steps back, and shakes his head. 

“Come on then.”

\---

_I'll be fine. I can take this._

He follows Fenris through the dimly lit streets in silence. His body is shaking as if he were dying of fever, and there's a tense knot coiling in his stomach. He ignores it. 

Fenris walks ahead of him, not even looking back to see if he follows. He could still walk away. 

He doesn't. He's made his decision. Bones can be set, bruises fade, and no healing magic can take away the cold emptiness in his bed every night. This is a fair trade. Entirely fair.

By the time they arrive at Fenris' appropriated mansion, Anders is numb. He follows Fenris inside like a puppet. _It's fine_ , he tells himself firmly. _It's fine, I can do this. I'll heal._

Fenris frowns at him. “Mage. Are you alright?”

“Yes,” He says. “I'm fine.” His voice echoes hollowly in the massive room.

“If you want to leave,” says Fenris carefully, “You are free to go. I will not stop you.”

He doesn't move. 

“Are you sure you want this?” Fenris asks him. 

_Yes_. The word sticks in his throat, so he takes action instead. He pulls the elf into another kiss, and this time there's no hesitation.

\---

There's a trail of clothes between the door and the bed, strewn haphazardly wherever they were dropped. Fenris is warm against him, tangled together, and he can almost feel something frozen inside him melting. The elf's battle-hardened hands are gentle with him, finding everything his body wants, and giving it freely. It's like coming into the sunlight.

It's like waiting for an axe to fall.

He doesn't belong here. This care and concern isn't meant for someone like him. It's as if Fenris is mocking him, as if pretending he's some delicate, precious thing will bring the shattered reality into better focus. It's jarring, and unexpected, and he has to fight not to flinch away from the soothing touches.

_We both know this can't last. You don't have to be so gentle: just hurt me and get it over with. I promise, it gets easier with practice._

“I always suspected you were fonder of mages than you let on.” It's strange how his voice can sound so calm when the rest of him is so off-balance. His chest is constricted, and he's shaking again, but his voice is smooth, and controlled, and just slightly sarcastic, calculated to enrage. 

Fenris does tense, briefly, but the pressure of his hands doesn't change. He's still careful, still gentle, and Anders' discomfort intensifies. He needs this game to be over. He's taken what he has no right to, and he can't help thinking the pain will somehow be the worse for the kindness that precedes it. 

“What, nothing to say?” he demands. “No deadpan commentary about how annoying I am? No reminders that you're still expecting me to explode into an abomination at any moment?”

Fenris' eyes flash, and for an instant, Anders is relieved. Still afraid, yes, but at least once the warrior is angry, he's back on familiar ground. It's better this way. It hurts more when they're angry, but at least it's honest.

“I am not fighting with you in _bed_ , mage,” the warrior growls. There's a warning note to the words, and Anders seizes on it. 

“Why not?” he asks, baring his teeth in a feral smile. “You don't hesitate the rest of the time.”

“Are you trying to make me angry?”

“You're always angry: vicious, like a wild dog.”

That ought to have earned him a glare, at the very least, but Fenris just chuckles dryly under his breath. “I'm only angry when I'm talking to _you_ , mage. And that is because you are usually picking fights.”

“Hurlock shit,” he says, with false lightness. He's so far out of line. Fenris would be within his rights to break him for what he's about to say. But then, that's the point, isn't it. “You're angry around me because I'm a mage. You look at me and see your master.” He smirks, and meets Fenris' eyes suggestively, giving no sign of the twisting in his gut. “You could look at me and see him now,” he murmurs.

He expects Fenris to threaten him, hit him, _something_ , but the elf seems unaffected. “Former master,” he says. “And he has no place here.” He cuts off Anders' next argument with a kiss. “I told you,” he says. “I will not fight with you.”

He means it, too. If bringing up Danarius didn't shake him Anders doesn't know what will, and Fenris is done talking. His lips are on Anders' neck, his fingers loosing the tie from the mage's hair, and Anders ought to be glad; he ought to be _grateful_ that he came here for a hate-fuck, and instead he's getting this.

He swallows, telling himself he has no reason to be nauseous. He shouldn't care that he has nothing to give in return, no wellspring of light inside him to match what Fenris is offering, but he can't help it. He's used to being the outlet of his lovers' rage, letting them brand their hate into his flesh. This is something else: something he can't, and shouldn't, accept.

He closes his eyes, biting his lip until it goes white. Then harder, breaking the skin. The taste of blood floods his mouth.

He can do this. If this is what Fenris wants the least he can do is play along, even if some part of him is sure that in the end he's going to be made to pay for every misappropriated caress. He started this; he owes it to Fenris to see it through. He can put on a show, convince Fenris that this was just a normal one night stand, and go find someone else to make it right. He just has to... 

\---

Against his will, a panicked cry rips out of him, and he shoves Fenris away, gasping. Anger follows the panic, mostly at Fenris. He swallows both, and tries to put on a calm face. He's ruining things, he always does, and normally it doesn't matter, but apparently fucking _Fenris_ can't just do what his lovers usually do, can't just pin his arms down and keep going while Anders breaks apart. No, he has to be _kind_ , and _careful_ and... 

Fuck it, this isn't helping. If he doesn't get himself under control _now_ , Anders is going to be facing an inquisition.

“Mage? What's wrong?”

Too late. “Nothing,” he chokes out. It's not convincing.

“You're crying.” 

Shit. He scrapes the tears away with sharp, jerky motions. “Why do you care?” he snaps. “You call me abomination and condemn me in the public streets, but we get behind closed doors and suddenly you're all kindness and delicacy? What is this?” He shoves Fenris again, harder. “You _hate_ me,” he snarls. “Fucking act like it.”

Fenris' eyes harden, and he catches Anders' hands, his fingers closing tighter and tighter, until they're on the edge of really hurting. “Is that what you want? For me to take my pleasure in your pain, and ignore the effect on you?”

He closes his eyes, the tears coming faster now. Of course it's not what he wants, but it's what he has. 

“It's what I expected,” he says. He sounds pathetic, broken, and small. He hurries on before he can change his mind. “You don't have to nursemaid me. I won't....you can be rough, you can hurt me; I'm a healer. It doesn't matter.”

Fenris' voice is soft, anguished.“You panic, and end up weeping in my bed, and you expect me to carry on and pay it no mind?”

“Why not?”

There's a long pause before Fenris replies, “I've never had good experiences with the use of sex as a weapon.” 

Danarius. Of course. “This is different,” Anders insists. “I won't fight back, I won't hurt you. You'd be the one in control.”

“You think that makes it better?” the elf demands. “I am not a magister, _mage_.” His voice softens. “Why?” he asks, “Why would you want that done to you?”

“It doesn't matter what I want,” he says. It's the first time he's said the words aloud to anyone but himself, and somehow hearing them this way makes it worse. His voice breaks, and he has to force the next part out. “I deserve it,” he says. “I'm broken. I deserve it.”

“Anders...” Fenris drops his hands. A moment later his weight is gone from the bed, and a moment after that Anders is alone.

\---

He dresses in silence, eyes dry now. It's oddly normal, putting himself back together alone, though he's usually moving a lot more stiffly as he does it. He wipes his face, and combs his hair back into place with his fingers, closes the cut on his lip. By the time he's done that, the stinging in his eyes is gone, and he probably looks a little bit more human.

He's an idiot. He's given away too much, and his outburst has probably destroyed any chance of Fenris letting this go. He wishes desperately that he had just lied, and said he wanted it. Too late now...

He opens the door numbly, hoping to leave quietly without humiliating himself any further. Fenris is sitting on the floor outside, fully armoured, his knees drawn up and head flung back against the wall

“Fenris...I'm sorry, I...I'll just-” he shuts his mouth, and edges away from the seated elf, towards the stairs. He's turning to leave when-

“Mage. Wait.”

He turns back. 

“I shouldn't have left you alone. I'm sorry.”

His first impulse is to say that Fenris doesn't have to apologise; he's used to being left, and usually in worse shape than this. He keeps his mouth shut. Nothing he's said tonight has been right. Better to stay silent.

“I meant to come back, but...I was thinking of Danarius. I was angry, and I didn't want you to see that. Not after what you said.”

“It's fine,” Anders tells him. “I shouldn't have said anything. I didn't mean to bring up bad memories.” He edges back towards the stairs. “I can leave. I should-”

“Please.” Fenris doesn't do pleading very often, _ever_ that Anders has seen, but he's doing it now. He carefully avoids Anders' eyes. “Stay,” he says. “I won't stop you if you truly wish to leave, but I would rather you stayed. If you're willing.” He sounds hesitant, as if he's afraid of the answer.

For a long moment, Anders hovers at the top of the stairs.

“Fine,” he says, “I'll stay.”

\---

He turns the bottle over in his hands, and raises his eyebrows at Fenris. “You don't have any glasses?”

“I must have forgotten them when I stocked the house.”

He laughs, and uncorks the wine. “I don't really drink these days, you know.” He does anyway, and passes it back to Fenris. “I'm sorry for coming here,” he says. “I shouldn't have wasted your time.”

Fenris takes a long swallow of wine and sets the bottle down in easy reach. “We disagree about many things,” he answers, “but you are not a waste of my time.” There's an edge to his voice Anders doesn't understand. 

The mage shakes his head. “You don't have to lie to me. I'm not looking for reassurance, just contact. I know you don't want me. You shouldn't.” He can't bring himself to expand on that, though by rights he ought to.

Fenris' lip twists in something like irony. “Because you think that to be wanted is too much to ask for. Better to ask for the pain that you think you deserve.”

He chuckles hollowly. Fenris seems to know what he's thinking better than he does. Except Fenris is acting like his opinion is unfounded, and Anders knows better. Maker, he's so fucked up. He can't be okay around people, and he can't make himself stay alone...

“After Danarius,” says Fenris slowly, “I didn't even want to touch anyone. I didn't trust them not to-” He breaks off, and there is silence for several seconds. Then he says, “Isabela...got me to try again.” 

“She's good at what she does. Some things especially.”

Fenris's smile says he knows what Anders means, but he doesn't let himself be distracted. “If someone has done something to you...”

Anders' face twists into a death-like mockery of a grin. “Fenris, are you trying to ask if I've been raped?”

“I'm asking why you think you deserve to be beaten to tears, and abandoned.” 

Fenris is angry, but not at him. There's something comfortingly novel in that, and he can't hold back a slight smile. Then the smile fades as he remembers the question. It's not one he particularly wants to answer. “You should redecorate in here,” he says. “I realize the broken tiles are homey, and all, but they seem a little bit unfriendly to someone who walks around barefoot all the time.”

“You needn't talk about it if you don't want to,” Fenris says. “I cannot force you. I wouldn't if I could. But-” He breaks off, swearing under his breath, but starts speaking again before Anders can interrupt. “You don't have to do this, mage. Anders. If it is pain you want, there are ways to do it safely. If companionship -” he looks away grimacing, but doesn't stop. “- I know what it is like to be alone. And afraid.” _And hurt_ , goes unspoken, but Anders hears it anyway. They're more two of a kind than either of them likes to admit.

“I've imposed on you enough,” he hears himself saying. “I shouldn't-”

“No,” snaps Fenris. The elf grabs his arm, catching on a faded bruise from the last time he did this. “Leave if you want to, but not out of some misguided self-flagellation.”

Anders doesn't answer, but he doesn't pull away.

Fenris' voice softens. “I know what it is like to think you cannot have good things,” he says, “but you do not deserve what you have done to yourself.”

And then he's weeping again, silently, helplessly. He's only half surprised when Fenris wraps his arms around him, and holds him until the tears stop.

\---

Anders would never have expected sitting in silence with Fenris to be comfortable, but somehow it is. The elf released him once he'd collected himself, and now they're sitting side by side, not looking at one another, but still close enough to touch. It's peaceful.

“It's not about the circle,” he says, as if to the air. He can feel Fenris listening to him, but neither of them looks at the other. “The circle...It was bad, but it happened to everyone. There was nothing you could do about it, so you got over it. Or ignored it. I don't know.” 

Fenris is unnaturally still next to him. “There are supposed to be rules.”

He shrugs. “There were. No one kept them, and no one cared. I tell myself it doesn't bother me, but maybe it does.” He shakes his head, “It doesn't matter. That's not why.”

“You don't have to know why.”

“Good, because I don't. But you asked, and-” he breaks off, chewing on his lip. There's still a slight phantom pain where he bit into it before, and he presses down until it's on the edge of splitting open again. _If I can't give you what I meant to, I at least owe you some answers._ That isn't the response Fenris is looking for.

“I know the difference between abuse and sex,” he says. “I always have. I had lovers in the circle; I never had a hard time separating that from what the Templars did.”

“Oh? And which did you think this was?”

“Some of both,” he admits. “I know what I'm doing is twisted. I ought to just stay away from people - all I ever do is hurt them - but I'm bad at being alone, so...I do this. It's a fair exchange. They get to let loose on someone, and I don't have to pretend to be okay because they don't care.” He cuts himself off, realising he's said more than he meant to. One hand mindlessly catches a few strands of hair and pulls steadily at them until they tear free. It helps.

“The first time was after I killed Karl,” he says. “I'd been alright before that; I'd been handling it. But that night...” He stops. Fenris is silent - probably judging him for how things went with Karl. As well he should. “I couldn't sleep in the clinic. I couldn't stop thinking about what had happened, what I'd _let_ happen, and how selfish I was being and...” 

The ripped-out strands are piling up in his fingers, each chunk a little larger than the one before, and when Fenris reaches out gently and pulls his hand down, holding it between them, it feels like a lifeline. 

“I went out and found someone to make me forget,” he says. “I knew it was going to hurt, but I wasn't prepared for how bad it would be. When he left, I swore I'd never do it again.” He laughs bitterly. “I did it again the next night. It just seemed right, like fair punishment for everything I'd fucked up. And the more I thought about it, the more fuck-ups I found.”

He pulls his hand back, suddenly uncomfortable. “I deserve it,” he says. “I know what you think of mages in general, and me in particular, and you're still wrong, about both, but you're not wrong to hate me. You just have the wrong reasons.” He stands. “I should go.”

“To find someone who will do what I would not?”

He glares, but doesn't answer.

Fenris isn't fazed. “You are not the only one with regrets, mage.” He grimaces, and the next words come out as if saying them hurts. “I have made my own mistakes,” he says. “And whatever I think of mages, or of you...nothing you have done is enough to justify the punishment you are inflicting on yourself. If you hear nothing else I have ever said to you, hear that.”

Anders closes his eyes, as if he can physically brace himself against the temptation to believe it. “You can't know that,” he says.

“I won't deny your mistakes,” says Fenris. “It would be cheap comfort, and you would not accept it. But there is more to us than our regrets, mage. You have suffered enough.”

He still doesn't believe it, but he wants to. He wants it so hard it aches. 

“Prove it,” he says.

Fenris takes his hand again, pulling him back to the bed. “Stay with me,” he says, “and I will.” 

Anders lets himself be drawn in, and as they sink onto the bed, he lets that rich, soothing voice override his self-condemnation.

It's like coming into the sunlight.

It's like being free.


End file.
